“Do it,” he said instead. He wasn’t even sure what he was asking for now, other than he wanted Lam to have whatever he wanted. Whatever he needed. Conan was teetering on the edge of destruction, and he welcomed it.
Lam leaned forward, and Conan didn’t even breathe. That pink tongue dipped out and then pressed to the searing pain of the cut. He licked against the bristle of Conan’s jaw, dragging the pain out, lapping the blood like a delicacy.
Conan’s whole body shuddered, drawn tight and overwrought.
Distantly he registered the clatter of the knife falling to the cobblestone. Lam’s hands cupping his face as he leaned in to taste more of the welling blood.
It triggered something in Conan, and suddenly he was moving, his arms coming down around Lam as his body thrust up, rolling them over in one messy move.
Lam gasped, started to struggle, but then Conan was driving into him, fucking him rough and deep. The side of his face was still pressed to Lam’s mouth and Conan felt teeth bite into him, too painful to be a love bite.
But he didn’t stop, couldn’t stop. He drove himself into Lam over and over again, feeling hands claw him, teeth against his jaw, before one of Lam’s hands found the knife again and it sliced across his shoulder.
He didn’t stop as the pain shot through him, launching him to the teetering edge.
It triggered Lam too. He moaned lost and ruined, and his tearing violence became clutching, became an arching and throbbing beneath Conan.
It was pure relief to make it. Conan rut messily into him, his own orgasm slamming into him. It tore through him and he kept going through the length of it, feeling all the hot wetness between them, the blistering cold against his back. Everything was competing sensations–the pulsing hot pain of his injuries and the bliss of pure pleasure. He reveled in it.
When it faded, Conan couldn’t even move off of the other man. He collapsed, dropping his head against the stone next to Lam’s. His muscles ached from the tension, and his head was blurry from the high.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he mumbled into Lam’s ear.
The man laughed, high like bells again.
Then, “You cut me,” Conan said when his brain came back online. He wasn’t angry, but it needed to be said because the pain on his shoulder was seeping in now. He couldn’t tell how bad it was, other than his shirt and jacket were soaked with blood.
“I thought that you–but you weren’t.” Lam said softly, wonderingly. “Sorry.”
The apology was awkward, like something he was used to saying.
“I’m not mad,” Conan said, to be clear. “But do I need to like… go to the hospital right now? I can’t tell.” That would suck, because he didn’t have fuckall to pay for something like that.
For some reason, that made Lam laugh again. Then a hand pat up his side to the wound and fingers wiggled into the cut through his clothing. The knife had been wicked sharp, slicing through his winter jacket and his shirt to his skin like it was nothing.
He hissed when fingers found the cut, pressing right into the wound.
Lam touched it exploratively. “We should make you a tourniquet, but I don’t think you’re going to bleed out. I can suture you.”
Conan huffed, and then forced himself to push up on the strength of his other arm even though he was feeling so blissfully good he wanted nothing more than to lay in it for minutes. Hours.Days.
His arms were still bound, and underneath Lam now, so it was awkward, but he managed to make enough space between them to see Lam’s face.
Lam brought his hand up, the one that had just been touching Conan’s cut. In the dark the blood was black on his fingers. Conan watched as Lam brought the fingers to his mouthand painted the blood across his tongue, eyes fluttering closed in a hum of pleasure as he tasted it.
“Fuck,” Conan said as another ripple of arousal shot through him. There was definitely something wrong with him that he was finding this so fucking hot.
But the same kind of thing was wrong with Lam, because his eyes flickered open and met Conan’s, and he smiled around the bloodied fingers.
He was so goddamn pretty.
“So,” Conan said, his gaze heavy, the electric magnetism snapping back to life between them, “How about that bed and shower?”
One of Lam’s brows lifted in interest. He pulled the fingers out of his mouth slowly, and they gleamed in the moonlight. Conan almost bent down to take them into his own mouth.
“Is that all you want?” Lam asked.
“And your phone number.” Conan had just had a mind shattering orgasm, but he still felt desperation snapping at his heels. He didn’t want to lose this man, lose whatever it was that had just cracked open between them, festering and seductive.
